The Stone People
by rivierelm
Summary: (AU, OC) Aibreann is the daughter of a Dal Riada chieftain. Blessed with a gift for story-telling, she dreams of becoming a bard. Soon, she is forced to choose between her duty and the freedom she craves most. Burdened by fate, she stumbles into the mists at Dunadd. There, the stones have been waiting...singing for Aibreann alone. (Original Story, Original Characters) Origin Story.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! If you're like me, you love Outlander! The story is simply fantastic, and I've been itching to take a crack at a fanfic, for years. So here is my attempt at a prequel of sorts, alluding to the Stones themselves, and their potential origins. In a way, I love it so much, because I can tie it in with my own Original Story, which is linked in my profile. The lore of the British Isles is wonderful. It all connects somewhere! I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Outlander, its characters, characterizations or anything to do with Diana Gabaldon's incredible series of novels.

I DO however own _this_ story, and all original content relating to my own work. This story, and its original characters- are mine. Conversely, any use of Outlander terms, scenarios, places or characters- I DO NOT. They are borrowed here, simply for the purpose of this fanfic. In other words, please do not use my original content in your own stories, without asking. ThanksJ

The Stone People

Chapter One

 _A.D. 590_

 _Islay, Argylle_

 _Scotia_

Aibreann didn't want to go to sleep. She wanted to hear a story. Not just any story, mind. She wanted to hear her favorite, and the only one who told it right was her father. Normally, he would have marched her up to her chamber himself. He would hoist her high, parade her through the Keep on his great burly shoulder. The men would hail and toast her, as they would their Chieftain. Aibreann would giggle all the way to her straw and heather bed, leap under her furs, and wait patiently for her father's tale to begin. Now, her father was late. She'd been tucked into her bower by dour old Sétna. The only word _he_ had for her, was 'sleep'. Well, she did'nae want to! Why should she have to go to bed, when everyone else gathered in the Hall to watch the bards perform? It was'nae fair! She was almost nine, by Brida! She could stay up and watch the lute player, couldn't she? If her father wasn't going to tell her his bedtime tale, why did she have to go to bed at all? She pouted up at the rafters, where nothing but dust and cobwebs, observed her petulance.

It wasn't _her_ fault her stepmother had to have a bairn at bedtime, was it? She sniffed in disdain. That irritating woman was so loud, the neighboring raths would probably have to shutter their windows. If only Aibreann did'nae have to hear her! Why was she so bloody noisy anyway? It was just a bairn. Dunadd was stuffed to the gills with bloody babies! Why did that stupid woman have to make such a fuss about it? Aibreann didn't want a little brother or sister. She wanted a story! She wanted to sit at table with her brothers. She wanted to ride her pony through the meadow and not be scolded when her tunic was soiled. She wanted to drink mead with her brother Hamish, in the larder after feasts. She wanted her own dagger. Most of all... she wanted her father. Why did he have to have more children? Weren't her and her brothers enough? Her eyes welled with frustrated tears. She didn't want to share her father with anyone else! She hated that woman! _Hated her_. In Aibreann's heart of hearts, she wished a kelpie would rise from the deep and carry her far away. In the Otherworld with the faeries, she could ride her pony however she liked, whenever she liked. She could have all the mead she could drink. She'd never be sent to bed early, especially not so more annoying babies could be brought screaming into the world. Sniffling, she chucked her wooden horse across the room. Where it landed, she couldn't say…only that as soon as it left her hand, her sniffles degenerated into sobs. Her father had carved that horse for her. It was her prized possession.

"Och, now," called a familiar voice from the steps outside her door. She sat bolt upright, her nose streaming, "what's all this then, _Mo Nighean Donn_?"

Her father carried an old Roman oil lamp into the room, placing it on her shelf with a frown. His red hair was unbraided, dipping over his gold and silver toque, like spilled copper. Her lower lip trembled, "Yer late! Why are ye always late, _àthair_?"

Her father scratched his head, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She scooted as far away from him as she could manage, crossing her skinny arms for spite. He chuckled, "There now, lass. Yer makin' a fuss over nothin' now. Ye know yer _màthair_ is busy bringin' ye a new brother or sister for Imbolg. I thought ye'd be happy to have someone smaller than ye, to boss about, no?"

"She's not me mam," Aibreann barked, kicking at her furs. "I don't want another bairn in our rath, _àthair_! I have plenty o'stupid brothers! Why d'ye need more?"

Her father watched her silently for some time, while she snuffled and hiccupped into her knees. A patient, knowing look, warmed his bright blue eyes, "Aibreann, ye know I love ye."

"No, I don't."

"Come now, ye know that's no' true a'tall. Don't ye?"

"No," her resolve waned under his kind regard and soft voice. She bit her lip against a new flood of tears. She wanted him to know how much she hated having to share him. She wanted him to be miserable too. Just like her. It was'nae fair! She had five brothers! Why did she have to be moved even further down the pecking order, to make room for more interlopers? Her mother might have died, but Aibreann was still here! Her father didn't need any more children.

He sighed, feigning a chill, "Och, what a poor mite. To be born to a house so cold! He's just a bairn, the sad little bugger, and already, yer plannin' to vex him. How pitiable."

"I will not."

"Seems ye will, lass. How cruel o'ye."

"I'm not cruel to bairns, _àthair_. I just don't like 'em. They're noisy, and they smell."

"Oh aye, and they're needy little buggers too."

Aibreann nodded sagely, "And they steal me toys."

Her father leaned toward her on his elbow. She didn't move away. "Well, well, what a shame then, aye? Got a new bairn comin' to our rath, hopin' for a bonny elder sister, and instead, look at the sour old crone he's got. How I weep for the wee laddie. No one to tickle his ears, no one to teach him about ponies, magic and wyrms. No one to tell him bedtime stories…"

Aibreann perked up, "D'ye think he'll want to hear o'the wyrms, _àthair_? The ponies?"

"Aye, I say he will. How lonesome for him, with no one to teach him where they sleep. Ye ken? Who will tell him o'the faerie mounds, o'Fergus Mór and the Romans, or the giants' pass in Ulster? Surely, he'll be rather dull now, won't he?"

Aibreann considered this carefully, tapping her nose. "Well," she said, a regal tilt to her chin, "I 'spose I could teach him, just so's he don't 'come a dullard like Donngal. All _he_ cares about're spears and girls." She made a face.

Her father grinned, tussling her brown curls, "That's _Mo Nighean Donn_. Yer wee brother–"

"Or sister," she corrected.

"Aye, or sister," he smiled, "will be needin' ye to teach 'em to be interestin. Ye ken? Who could do more for him, I wonder?"

"No one."

"There ye have it then. It's a special job, just for ye. Can ye manage it?"

"Better n'me daft brothers, ye ken?"

"I believe ye."

She swiped at her eyes, "I spose ye better teach me some more stories then, _àthair_ …just in case I can't 'member 'em all."

Her father threw back his head, defeated. He flopped onto her furs, tugging her into his arms, "Oh alright! Ye harridan! What's it to be then? The tale o' Cú Chulainn again?"

She wriggled into his side, "I want to hear o'Éber Finn, _àthair_ , and the Tuatha Dé Dannan. Ye said he was our kinsman?"

"Aye, he is at that," her father groaned, "but it's a verra long tale, duckling."

"Please, _àthair_? I'm not tired!"

Her father, Áedán Mór Mac Eirc, King of the Cenél nÓenghusa of the Dal Riada, couldn't refuse his little daughter a thing, which was certainly why she was so spectacularly spoilt. "Alright, alright. Which part d'ye want to hear?"

"The beginning!"

"Och! The beginning, ye say! But that's the longest bit!"

Crafty as a fox, Aibreann toyed with a lock of his red hair, "Aye, but if ye tell it to me from the start, I can tell it to the bairn, when he comes. I can tell him o'Old King Míl Espáine and his sons. How they fought the Tuatha Dé Dannan, and conquered our homeland. How Amergin and Éber Finn beat the Dannan High King, then the Stone People, and–"

"Sounds to me, ye already know the tale quite well, lassie."

Aibreann flushed, "I don't, _àthair_! I don't."

He fixed her with a long, sideways glare. "Well, if ye want it from the start, 'tis from there our tale begins. Amergin and Éber Finn were two o'Old Míl Espaine's seven sons…"

"And their _màthair_ 's name was Scota! 'Tis our land, _àthair_! They named it for her."

"Am I tellin' this tale, or are ye?"

"Ye are! Ye are, _àthair_. I'm sorry."

He settled against the furs, with his daughter's chin propped against his shoulder, an eager grin splitting her face from ear to ear, "As I was sayin', 'fore I was so rudely interrupted, Old Míl and his folk were searchin' for a new place to call their home, when his uncle Ith, spied this great green land across the sea."

"Éire! The Dal Riada's homeland!"

"Aye duckling, aye. The Dal Riada, and all tribes o'the Scotti, are descended from the Milesians who conquered the Isle of Éire. Now do ye want to hear it, or tell it?"

"Sorry, _àthair_. Please go on."

He mussed her dark curls once more, "Now what the Milesians did'nae know, was in this great green land, three immortal races did there dwell, and they made war upon one another for rule of the Isle. D'ye recall those three races, _Mo Nighean Donn_?"

She held up three fingers, "The Tuatha Dé Dannan, the Fir Bolg, and the Stone People! The…ah, the…"

"The Fomorians, duckling."

"Aye! The Fomorians. Who ruled all the Isles– even ours– from the dawn o'time."

"They did, and 'tis due to them, and their strange magics that ye have the standin' stones to marvel at. The Fomorians were a dark race, full o'devils and dark powers. Ye remember why ye must'nae ever touch one o'their stones?"

She shivered, lowering her voice to a whisper, "They be portals to t'Otherworld."

"That they are, and ye will be sure to teach it to the bairn, when he comes, won't ye?"

"I will...I promise. Tell me about the Milesians, _àthair_."

"'Twas a storm that carried their _curragh_ to shore, that night. The sky was dark and roilin', and the sea churned deep and cold. 'Twas only Éber Finn and his brother Amergin in that little boat, seeking a safe harbor, from which to march inland to their destiny…"


	2. Chapter 2

Hello again!

Here is the second installment of my Outlander FF. I received a couple of friendly reviews, but haven't responded yet because frankly- I forgot how! Lol. I keep trying to send DM's when I reply, and I know that's not the way to do things. Haha. Bear with me please, while I relearn the ropes.

To respond to questions I've received, yes this story takes place in Outlander's Universe, and touches on the theme- but does not feature your typical cast of characters…well, at least not yet, anyway. This is more an exploration of the Stones, the land and the Scots themselves. I love Outlander, and wanted to take a crack at an origin story of sorts. I hope you like the new chapter, and please stay tuned for more. I will try to update every weekend J

**Notes on text- I am editing some of the accent stuff down, because I realize I made it a bit too hard to read. I enjoy having it in there, because I find it adds flavor to the narrative, but I will try to keep it to a minimum from here on out. As for some of the Gaelic terms, each week, I'll post a small glossary just for fun. I am not a native speaker myself, but I do study it. If my translations are in any way off, please DM and let me know- so I can fix them, thanks!

* _àthair_ \- father * _Aibreann_ \- (Averawn)

* _màthair_ \- mother * _Gábran_ \- (Gav-ran, or Grawn)

* _Scotia_ \- (Skoshe-ah) * Dal Riada- (doll-ree-ahda)

***Any mistakes in the timeline, are either intentional, or my own mistake. No need to mark them out. Just enjoy the story.

****If you leave a comment and I don't respond right away, it's because I'm computer illiterate, not rude. Lol. Hope to hear from ya! Enjoy!

…

The Stone People

Chapter Two

 _A.D. 597_

 _Islay, Argyll_

 _Scotia_

"What happened then, Bre?" Asked wee Gábran, struggling to unwind himself from the furs Aibreann had just tucked him into. The lad's downy red curls and huge blue eyes, reminded her so much of her father, it was hard to look at him sometimes. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat at the thought. Her _àthair_ wouldn't have wished anyone to weep for him, especially Aibreann. She folded Gabran's covers down tight, setting his favorite wooden horse against his chest. The lad giggled; bedtime was his favorite game, and he would surely wriggle out of these furs again, as soon as her back was turned. Aibreann waved her hands in the air with poetic flourish, lowering her voice to an ominous octave.

"The tricky Tuatha Dé called a storm to expel the Milesians from Èire, but clever Amergin spoke the language of the sea, and soothed the gale with a song–"

"And his brother the Finn, defeated their champion at Talloo-town."

" _Tailtu_ ," Aibreann gently corrected, "and am I tellin' this tale, or are ye?"

Undeterred, Gábran struck out his lower lip, "Get to the part where Èber and Airgetros fight for the kingship, Bre. That's my favorite part."

"Och, it would be, ye wee savage," Aibreann chuckled, "but ye got quite a bit of growin' left to do before ye'd be any challenge for Donngal or Fergna, ye ken?"

The lad pulled a sour face, "Aye, one day, I'll show 'em. I'll be tall as Fionn Mac Cumhaill, and nobody will tell me when I have to go to bed, or learn to read borin' ole ogham with Sétna. Why do I have to ken all the names o'Donngal's bannermen?"

She gave him a small smile, "Why, cuz _yer_ one o'Donngal's bannermen, duckling. Or will be, when yer bigger'n me."

"That won't be long," the lad assured her, "if I eat all me parrich, Sétna says I'll be bigger than _àthair_ soon. Was he verra tall then, Bre? Tall as Fionn?"

"Oh, aye. Taller than the snowy peaks on Skye, he was. Beard as long as a river, and red as the sun on the Longest Day. 'Twas a fierce, giant, yer _àthair_. Strong as a hunnerd oxen, and wise as Amergin himself, ye ken? Áedán Mór Mac Eirc, King of the Cenél nÓenghusa of the Dal Riada; was a mighty warrior, a clever judge, and a just ruler."

"Do ye miss him, Bre?"

She did not have words enough to describe how much. "Course I do, duckling."

Gábran toyed with his horse, a pensive expression on his pale face, "Aye, and when ye go off and marry the king of Loairn's son, I won't have anybody but Sétna, and he doesna care for the old tales, Bre. Who will tell me stories, if not ye?"

Aibreann made a face, " _I_ won't be marryin' anyone, Gábran. Who told ye such nonsense?"

" _Màthair_ ," he said, galloping his horse up her forearm, "she said ye gotta."

Nostrils flaring, Aibreann bit the inside of her cheek to keep from barking at him, "Yer _màthair_ is mistaken, duckling. I wilna be goin' anywhere, so long as Donngal's our laird. He'll never allow it. Never fear. I'll be tellin' ye stories into me dotage."

Blue eyes wide, he shook his wee head, "Nah, Bre. I heard _màthair_ talkin' with Sétna yesterday. She says ye canna refuse an offer from the Laird's son. Somethin' bout war," he perked up, "d'ye ken they'll lemme fight, Bre? I can hold Hammal's spear all by me'self now, and Fergna says I ride better'n the twins do, and they're older."

"Nay, Gábran. Yer too young to fight, and that's enough with ye now. 'Sides, what ye heard is a bad joke, is all. 'Twill never happen. Donngal will never force me to marry anyone. I promise ye."

"But, Bre. Sétna says 'twas decided when _àthair_ crossed into _Tech Duinn_ , and Donngal 'came Laird. That's what he said, I swear he did. Ye told me not to lie, so I wouldna."

A creeping panic wormed its way into Aibreann's heart. If this was true, everyone had been keeping quite the secret from her for nearly two years. The Laird of Loairn's sons were all blockheaded oafs, with bucked teeth and knobby knees. Aibreann wasn't exactly vain, but she did have _some_ standards, by Brida. Not a one of them had lick of sense either. At a feast some years ago, Breccan, the eldest, poured a full horn of mead into her hair, because she wouldn't give him her last bannock. Céal, the youngest, once told her the moon was made of curd, and pinched her mercilessly when she corrected him. The Cenél Loairn were a poor clan, full of illiterate brutes, whom only knew how to herd sheep and stab other men with pointy sticks. No, thank you. She sniffed to herself. She would chew rocks, than live with such uncouth barbarians. Aibreann needed light, life, music and tales. She would dwindle to nothing without them.

She'd just _see_ about her stepmother's plans, wouldn't she?

She had her own ideas, and none of them involved Laird Loairn's worthless brood.

Aibreann sighed, reaching down to kiss the tip of Gábran's red nose, "Never ye mind about that business, duckling. Ye'll not lose me so easily."

"D'ye swear, Bre? It wilna be any fun without ye."

"I do. Now hie yerself to sleep there, wee man. Ye shall have another story on the morrow."

He sucked in a breath, "Fionn and the Fianna?"

"If ye like, but only if ye give Sétna no trouble in yer lessons. Can ye do that?"

"Well…I 'spose," he groaned, in childish persecution.

She smiled, "That's me wee duckling."

Upon quitting his chamber, she was forced to shake her head when he immediately leapt out of bed to play with his horse in the window-sill. It was the same one her father carved for her at Gábran's age; back when she wanted to be a pony, or a Pegasus, like in the bard's tales. She was glad the poor mite could have something that their father made, for there was little else set aside for him. Their grown brothers, hastily appropriated everything Áedán left behind; weapons, furs, livestock, and ornaments. Aibreann and Gábran had to make do with the leavings. Such was life in Dunadd. Mostly, Aibreann did not begrudge her brothers their due, so long as they let her and Gábran be. Usually, that was simple enough, for none of their elder brothers held a lick of interest in either of their lives. For Gábran, that could be quite hard, as he was desperate for fatherly affection. Sometimes, he would go to bed early, for fear his brothers would catch him weeping; his loneliness often consumed him so. For a lad of so few years, his lot was rather harsh. His mother was always at the loom or managing the household, and didn't have much time left over for him at the end of each day. After her _àthair_ passed, much of his rearing had naturally fallen to Aibreann.

As for Aibreann herself, caring for her wee brother, and devoting herself to her studies, were the only concerns she made room for. She had been working for nearly a decade with old Oisin, to master the bardic arts, and was already promised to the High Brehon at Kintyre. She could be no man's bride. To break the bard's vow, was to invite calamity into one's rath. The Sidhe were ruthless when angered. Everyone knew this, so what in the hells was Gábran's mother on about? She set her jaw, drawing her heavy sealskin cloak over her thin shoulders. She would waste no time. This matter needed sorting. She marched toward Donngal's apratments, her head held high. She was a noblewoman from the House of Mór. She had nothing to fear.

…..

"Donngal," Aibreann repeated, growing angrier by the moment, "I am promised. Ye know verra well I cannae be wed to some fool, just so ye can own more cattle. Yer bloody out o'yer mind. _Áthair_ would be turnin' in his barrow, if he knew what ye and that woman have cooked up between ye. He gave the Brehon his word. Ye canna break it."

"I can, and I bloody well will, Aibreann," said her ugly, stupid brother, Donngal– King of the Cenél nÓenghusa, and Laird of Argyll. "Yer _àthair_ didnae take into account that ye'd be his only lass. Yer the daughter o'a king. His only daughter. Now in ages past, ye mighta had yer way and could hie off to all the foreign courts yer heart desired, singin' and tellin' tales…but not now. Not in Argyll, ye won't. In Argyll, yer my sister and yer gonna marry who I tell ye to, for whatever reason I tell ye to. D'ye ken?"

"Yer daft, to tempt the gods this way, brother," she dropped her tone as low as it could conceivably go, "I am promised to the Brehon, and ye have no right."

"I have the _only_ bloody right! The Sidhe don't exist, ye daft fool. We're not bloody savages runnin' about wearin' hides and singin' to the moon anymore neither! This be a new age, and we're an enlightened folk. We don't sell princesses to gnarled old storytellers for good luck, and we don't let ye damned women make the decisions about what the gods will or wilna say about anythin' anymore!"

She scoffed, folding her arms, "Yer sure enough now. Yer tryin' to sell me for a head o'cattle, brother. That's just vulgar, and I'd rather bloody die than marry to make yer fortune."

Donngal threw up his hands, "Vulgar, she says. He'll be a king someday, and ye'll be his queen. Sétna, talk sense into this lass before I throttle her." He stalked to his dais, flopping down on the fur-strewn steps. It was quite cold in the Hall, nearing Samhain as it was, and Donngal Mac Áedán, preferred his comforts. A serving girl handed him a horn of mead. He glared daggers at Aibreann over the rim. She twisted her nose at him. He'd been unsuccessfully trying to bully her all of her life; she wasn't about to let him succeed now. Her mother had been a queen. She had the right to choose her own mate, or take up the lyre. This was Scotia, and she was Dal Riada, same as he. Their father's deeds made him a great leader, but it was their mother's name that made him a king. Áedán had been a minor cousin, when he married Sorcha Mór. It would be the same for Aibreann, if the Clan chose her to rule- though she'd never bothered about that. She had no wish to be a queen like her mother. She wanted to be a great bard, and travel the Isles. Donngal would know as much, if he bothered to ask her. He was afraid whoever she married, would try to take the throne from him, was all. The scheming turd. He'd taken it into his head to study the ways of the Kneelers in the South; those whom followed the Nailed God. In Briton, land and titles passed through the father's line, rather than the mother's. She could see the appeal. Donngal would like nothing better than to remake the world to suit himself, but this was still Scotia– and Aibreann was not property to be bought and sold!

"Aibreann," Sétna's raspy voice broke into their staring match, "if yer _àthair_ had lived a while yet, the southerners and their ways may have been staved off for a time, but he didnae, and we must make alliances to hold our lands. The Cenél nÓenghusa are strong and prosperous, but that won't last if we're surrounded by enemies on three sides. We need to make alliances that will last. To do that, we need bonds thick as blood. Ye have a chance to help protect yer people, lass. To give them a future. Don't ye think that's what yer _àthair_ would have wanted?"

The tired old man sagged a bit on his bench, warming himself by an iron brazier roaring with blazing peat. His kind, knowing eyes dipped sideways at the wooden cross hanging from the front of her brother's tunic. An obvious hint for her alone. Sétna was no Kneeler. It was his two hands that brought her mother, her aunts, her brothers, and herself into this world. He followed the old ways, like any Brehon. In centuries past, he might have been a druid, for all his wisdom and skill. He would not speak so to her, unless he believed there was cause. Aibreann's brows knit together. "Me _màthair_ was queen, Sétna. I have no wish to wed, and ye canna make me. It's our law."

Donngal shot to his feet, his cloak dangling awkwardly from his silver toque. "Ye canna challenge me for the throne, Aibreann! Ye have no supporters. No one in Dunadd wants ye for their queen. A fanciful lass, with a head full o'faeries, giants and superstitious drivel? Och, if it came to a vote, ye'd lose face for our whole Clan! Our people need a strong ruler, like _àthair._ I am a strong ruler. How will ye protect them when the Loairn's come to raid our cattle? Or the Picts come to burn our raths each autumn? What will ye do then?"

Her face burned hot as the peat in the brazier, "I don't mean to bloody challenge ye! I just want me own choice, brother. I want to honor me vow to the Brehon of Kintyre. I want to be free. Why canna ye ken that?"

"We each of us, must do our duty to the Clan, Aibreann. My part is to rule and keep our borders safe, and yers is to marry to forge a bond with our kin. Will ye have little Gábran put to the sword in a raid, for yer pride?"

"No! How could ye say such a thing?"

"Then why are ye arguin' with me about this? Ye _must_ do this. Who else but ye, can?"

Aibreann stamped her foot, "This is _her_ doing! Ye are doin' this to spite me, on her account! She blames me for her lot. Blames _our_ mother! How can ye take her side and banish me to Loairn? How can ye do this to me?"

"Morag has nothin' to do with this, Aibreann."

"Indeed, she spoke up for ye, lass. Would love ye, if ye'd let her," offered Sétna, softly.

Aibreann covered her ears, "I'll not hear it! I'll not hear any of it! I am not a mare ye can loan out for stud, brother! I'll not have any o'those stupid, uncivil brutes from Loairn or anywhere else! Me life is me own, and I'll live it how I choose."

"Aibreann!" Her brother roared, but she was beyond listening to him. She spun on her heel, and fled from the hall; a veil of tears clouding her vision.

….

"Where're we goin', Bre?" Asked Gábran, holding her hand in his thick woolen traveling cloak and sealskin boots. Aibreann shouldered a small pack, their waterskin, and a small rudimentary lyre her father bought for her at Lugnasa a few years back. Treading softly through the heather and loam, she wore a dense brown cloak, and a determined tilt to her jaw.

"To Kintyre, duckling. Where we'll be safe."

"Weren't we safe in our _rath_ , Bre?" He yawned. "I'm tired, and it's dark out here. Nona says the pooka haunt the moors, lookin' for wee boys and girls to eat. I don't wanna meet a pooka. I'm scairt."

She squeezed his little hand hard, "No need to be scairt, me bonny lad. I'll keep ye safe."

"Why are we goin' anyway? I have lessons with Sétna in the morn, 'member? Ye said I should behave, and ye'll tell me o'Fionn and his Fianna."

"Nevermind all that now. We're goin' on an adventure, ye and I, duckling. I thought ye always wanted to go a'travelin'?"

"Well…I do, but…"

"And if yer not here to protect me, how will I make it to Kintyre?"

Gábran puffed his tiny chest out a bit at that, "Aye, ye are verra wee."

She gave him a sidelong squint, "So we should go soft and swift as shades, ye ken?"

Gábran eyed the moors around the road, with a wary, speculative eye. The moon and stars winked down on them from a clear black sky. Not a breath of wind disturbed their passage, but their boots crunched through grass and gravel coated with ripening frost. From the hills to the north, a curtain of mist obscured the road ahead, making it nearly impossible to see anything behind or beside them. Aibreann could smell the river, could even hear it, though she could not place its exact location in the dark. It was somewhere on her right, not far. They were getting close to the Stones now. She could only pray Gábran didn't see them first. To see the Stones so near on such a night, so close to Samhain…would scare the wits out of her brave little warrior.

They must keep moving. 'Twouldn't be long now, before Donngal realized they were gone. As far as she could reckon, she had only till dawn, to get well clear of Dunadd. She felt bad for wee Gábran, but she couldn't leave him behind, could she? No one paid an ounce of attention to him, saving herself. If she went without him, he'd wilt like a flower without the sun. Besides, she loved the wee bugger. She would never leave him, any more than she would leave her own bairn. Dunadd did not deserve either of them, as far as she was concerned. Her brother meant to sell her for profit, and Gábran was a mere inconvenience for her greedy, stupid brothers. Well, she would have none of that, and neither would Gabran. Not while she drew breath. She would take him to Kintyre, and the pair of them would train to bard for the Clans. She would show them. Show them all, what a prize they lost for the Clan.

As the road swung hard left, she heard the river now, closer than ever. So too, were the Stones. She could feel them, even if she couldn't see them. A dull throb at the very rim of her thoughts. An omnipresent worry, it was; constant and unchanging. Ever since she'd been a bairn, she could hear them hum sometimes in her sleep. The dreams they brought, were at once thrilling and horrifying. Gritting her teeth against their subtle threat, she marched on. She would not be distracted now, no matter what. She was so preoccupied with trying not to listen, she didn't hear the flute blowing in the distance, until it was nearly in their path. Gabran stopped, gripping her fingers so tight, she winced. Someone or something stepped out of the mist before them. Aibreann gasped, tugging Gabran back against her and pulling out her skein du. The figure materialized from the fog, his dark hair long and unbound. He wore no hood, nor cloak; despite the chill in the air. Aibreann couldn't see his face, but she didn't need to. Instinct sent her backward, placing herself between the stranger and her wee man.

"I have a blade. Let us pass, or I'll gut ye." She growled, ready. She knew how to use her dagger, by Brida. She had six bleedin' brothers, didn't she?

The figure stepped forward on the balls of very light feet. He might have floated for all that Aibreann could hear his steps. She danced back a bit further, as he approached. She saw his smile first, before the moon shed light on his pale, handsome face. Too pale, actually, for Argyll; and too handsome, for Scotia by a league. "Aibreann, I presume?"

The way he said her name, made the small hairs at the nape of her neck rise, "Who are ye? Why do ye know me?"

"Bre, we should run away," Gábran whined, "he's strange…"

The newcomer bowed at that, "Well said, Laird Gábran. Though, am I truly so strange? You've only just met me, so how would you know?"

His accent was lilting, musical, and…off.

"I'll only ask ye once more. Who are ye, and why do ye know our names?"

The stranger folded his hands behind his wide back, his long inky black hair, sliding over his shoulder, when he stood once more. Somehow, he'd managed to move several feet without either of them noticing. He stared down at her; only inches away now. His silver eyes bore into hers like hooks. Aibreann's hands trembled. There were no men like this in Dunadd. There were no men like this, anywhere at all. She would remember. "I have many names, depending on my travels, but for you I shall be Creag, milady. Some call me 'Dubhar', for my hair, you see?"

"Get out o'our way, Creag. Or ye'll regret it, I vow."

"Bre," Gabran clung to her for dear life, "he's…"

"I know it, duckling. I'll not allow him to harm ye."

Creag's perfect teeth flashed in the night, "I'd never harm such a fair lady, nor such a fine lad. You have the word of a prince there, dearest."

"I am not yer 'dear' anything, faerie. Be gone with ye now! We'll have none o'yer tricks." She hissed, working Gabran and herself backward with each breath.

Creag rolled his eyes, "I'm no faerie, Aibreann. You know that we consider that a terribly rude word, don't you?"

"I don't care. Leave us alone."

He watched her closely, a charming, possessive gleam in his eye. It terrified her. "I can't. I believe you feel that too."

Gabran tried to wrench her away, while she held her little dagger out before her with a renewed vigor, "What did ye come here for, then?" From the dark, she could hear the Stones of Dunadd grinding together on their invisible wheel. Could feel them hum beneath her feet.

Creag's perfect mouth tugged upward at each corner, and her heart skipped a dozen beats, "Why, I'm here for you, Aibreann…but I suspect, you knew that already as well."


End file.
